


Anthesis

by KestrelShrike



Series: Anthesis-Side Stories [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Illness, Mild Smut, NSFW, Romance, Series, Smut, Solavellan, cystic fibrosis, solvellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 21,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3580824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelShrike/pseuds/KestrelShrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a work I would have undertaken if I didn't have cystic fibrosis myself. Because I like to put myself into every game I play, I wondered how chronic illness would play out in the world of Dragon Age. Here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the next few weeks, I'll gradually be adding chapters, fleshing things out. Please keep an eye out! <3
> 
> I really wanted to add some pre-relationship, early romance stuff- those awkward moments that are inevitable.

The last thing she remembered was an endless expanse of snow, broken only by a campfire far off in the distance. Her body had been in incredible pain, far more so than the usual. It had hurt so much to breathe. Finally, she thought, death has come for me. Maiwe had expected this moment for so long.

To her surprise, she woke again, the comforting cocoon of darkness fading away to a harsh winter light softened through layers of stiff canvas and hide. Her body ached, but the sharp pain she had expected was gone. Her breathing, her constant concern, was as easy it could be. There was no wheezing, no rattling. 

It took time for her eyes to focus. How long had she been asleep? How had she ended up here, covered beneath a heap of blankets? She was warm, and as comfortable as she could be. All her limbs appeared to be able to move, and she could turn her head, touch her shoulder to her chin. She shouldn’t be alive. Not after what Corypheus had done to her. 

Arguing had woken her up, the pitch rising even as she sat up, groaning deeply. She couldn’t make out the words- not yet. Her head felt heavy. It weighed too much to stand up just yet. Af few more minutes rest- that was all she needed. Unfortunately, she was not alone. Someone was in the tent, had left the flaps open. A cold breeze lifted her hair, seemed to get underneath the blankets so that she shivered, causing a fresh ripple of pain to spread throughout her body. 

That all this culminated with another discussion with Mother Giselle just made her feel worse. To say that she and Maiwe did not see eye to eye was a gross understatement. Of those she had to keep her secret from, the Chantry woman ranked near the top. She would take any weakness, exploit it in Andraste’s name. She refused to accept that Maiwe may not be the Herald of Andraste, that Maiwe could hold beliefs that differed from her own. In the face of such blind faith, there was nothing Maiwe could do. 

Instead, she rose. It hurt- it hurt deeply. The pain had been dull and was now sharp again. She strongly suspected one of her ribs had been broken. If she were to strip away the clothes she wore, her flesh would be mottled and purple. That could wait until later. She was too afraid to self examine now. Not after all that had happened. More than ever, people needed her. They had lost Haven. What now? Where could she possibly take them that could save so many? She was not their Herald. She was not their savior. She had never wanted any of this.

******

It was just days later that she found herself walking across the snow again. She followed Solas, watching his every movement. They had spoken to each other a little bit. 

“While you slept, I took the opportunity to study the mark further. We now know it comes from Corypheus. There is much we may yet learn.” When he looked at her, he was frank and earnest, appraising. Despite her bruised body, Maiwe felt herself flushing hot. This was exactly the wrong time to be feeling this way, to feel tendrils in the base of her stomach, spreading upward. This was a complication she did not need. She thought he returned her glances, but it could have been interest in the Anchor. She was still a mystery for him to unravel. 

Still, Maiwe followed Solas, trusted that he would guide her, guide everyone, into safety. He said he knew of a place where they would be safe. He spoke with such confidence that she could not question him. Her trust appeared to have been placed well. 

“How did you know this was here?” She had followed him breathlessly up the path. They stood together now, surveying what would be their new home. At least she could blame the climb for her labored breath. If Solas noticed, he said nothing. 

“I read texts about it, long ago. I did not know if it would still be here, but it was a risk I took.” The light hit the stone, illuminated it so that it seemed to glow. From here, damage to the structure was visible, yet it was solid, still standing. How could anyone forget such a place? How could anyone leave? That Solas had found it, however he had found it, was some kind of gift. It was almost enough to let Maiwe believe that her gods had not forsaken her entirely. 

The emotions that stirred within her were impossibly complex. There was an element of hero worship in it. Solas had lead them there. He had saved them all in a more tangible way than Maiwe could have ever done. What had she achieved, besides basic survival in the face of stacked odds? Yet her people still looked to her. In turn, she looked within herself, but her eyes drifted to Solas more and more, admiring his confidence, the way he seemed to know so much about the world. 

He had been the one to heal her once more. It was nothing Solas would admit to, but Maiwe had asked, and others gave the information away freely. That made him closest to discovering the illness that ate away at her. As much as Maiwe wanted to draw closer, she cautioned herself to maintain her distance. If he found out, he would abandon her, along with everyone else. Still, she noticed that Solas watched her as much as she watched him, that he smiled at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She could only smile back, trying to hide behind a hand or an arm, hopeless in the face of stronger feelings she could not eradicate. Not entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

The mark had put everything in a kind of stasis. When she woke in the mornings, the pain was still there, a dull ache in her chest, in her knees and her elbows, but it did not grow during the day. A sharp wind through the stones of Skyhold could paralyze her temporarily, make every joint feel twice its size, but it would fade back to that persistent soreness. It was survivable, though not comfortable. It could be hidden. 

The mornings were the worst. Every night seemed colder than the last. She woke up shivering, no matter how many blankets were heaped onto her frame, fever sweat soaking the sheets. Mornings and evenings were equally difficult. A racking cough shook through her body, so hard that she had to clench her whole frame to prevent her limbs from spasming. During the day, Maiwe could prevent it, clenching her stomach muscles as tight as she could, not letting a single sound escape without her explicit permission. If anyone suspected that their Inquisitor’s health wasn’t up to par, they said nothing. She had herbs and potions that could make things better for a time. At least now she wasn’t growing worse. It was a small thing to be thankful for.

Truthfully, she had always been expendable. That was why her Clan had sent her to the Convocation. In the time since, she did not seem to be dying. She simply seemed to exist. 

She held herself aloof, but life rarely follows even the most rigorous plans. People got to Maiwe, wormed their way under her skin. Sometimes Mainwe had dreams with her new friends in them. She rarely dreamed of her parents and her Clan anymore. 

A long day. They had been camping in the Storm Crest, trying to collect those mysterious shards. They had to have a purpose. The rain had settled into her chest. Maiwe wheezed going up the stairs, felt mucus in her lungs thickening and hardening. It was all too much. There were weeks, months, perhaps even years left in this journey. Only she could close the rift, and it seemed like she was being kept alive for that express purpose. But was she being kept happy? Her secret weighed heavily on her mind, as she unravelled her blonde hair. It, at least, looked healthy, a sharp golden contrast to the grey pallor that had set in her pale skin. There was never enough air, hadn’t been enough air since before the Convocation. Giving up seemed like the logical option. What more could they want from her? She fought countless enemies, but her own body was the most difficult battle of them all. Maiwe rubbed her vallaslin, Ghilan’nain’s mark. Did Ghilan’nain create the sickness that sat deep within her? 

A soft knock on the door. Whoever it was simply let themselves in, the knock a mere courtesy. It was not yet too late, though it had been a long day of traveling. Maiwe longed for the solitude to indulge in her aches and pains, to let her face grimace freely, instead of holding it all in.

“Solas.” Of course. He was the major complication. They had shared a kiss, and now something existed between them. It was neonatal, but it was out in the open now, and would only grow. She could not let him see that part of her. It would disgust him. He would turn away. Worse, he would tell the others about her. The Inquisition would be ruined. Who would follow an Inquisitor like her? Her weakness would spread, a contagion that infected everyone else until they left her. She would be the undoing of the world. 

“Have I interrupted anything?” He hovered on the threshold until she shook her head. A tickle was building in her throat. 

“I had something I wished to discuss.” Had Maiwe looked up, she would have seen a momentary flash of guilt flash across his face, but her gaze was focused somewhere above his head, as she fought the urge to cough. 

The urge built up in her throat until she could no longer suppress it. The cough shot through her body, as she tried to bury her face in the crook of her elbow, to suppress it. Instead, it just made her face red, her eyes water. Solas stepped forward in evident concern, his hand out stretched but not quite touching, as if he was afraid that she would break just from that simple context. It annoyed her, in that part of her mind that was not occupied with trying to drag herself back upright, in trying to get oxygen back to her starving lungs. 

“I’m fine.” She preempted any of his questions, though her breath was still short. Tears streamed from her eyes, but at least they weren’t from grief. She couldn’t help them, though she cursed their weakness. “This happens. I have a cold. It’s fine.” A torrent of information, conflicting. Solas looked steadily more concerned, this time actually laying a head on her shoulder. Her warmth burned through him. Another fever. 

“That does not sound like a cold.” There was a note of gentle accusation in his voice. How far could she push him? 

“Are you an expert on colds, as well as the Fade? Please, tell me more.” It came out harsher than she intended. Solas’ frown deepened, but he did not leave her. Why wouldn’t he leave her? 

“If you wish, I could step out. I have nothing that cannot wait until morning.” 

“Please. I’ll feel better tomorrow.” Solas stepped out as she wanted, but not before he bent to kiss her forehead, despite the fine sheen of sweat that matted her hair to her vallaslin. Her skin burned against his lips, seared into his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronting mortality, and a secret begins to unravel.

His eyes were on her always. Where previously it had been with a barely disguised romantic interest, now Solas watched Maiwe carefully, measuring every move she made against the coughing attack he had witness in her room. No one else had brought it up, so it remained a secret between them, a heavy weight. It would come out sooner or later, but they were traveling today. She was safe for now. 

Safe being a relative term, of course. The Fallow Mire was said to be a dangerous place. An entire patrol had gone missing. As chaotic as things were, Maiwe could not leave them behind. They might not have even heard of the fight at Haven, that they had all moved to Skyhold and were attempting to make it a home. In her Inquisition, none would be left behind, to feel as though they were forgotten, expendable. A noble goal, though it was one she was not sure how to realize. 

With her in this damp, cursed place were Solas, Dorian, and Cassandra. Though Maiwe had to take special guard around Solas, she could not deny that his barrier spells had kept their party alive time and time again. She also had a sneaking suspicion that she was falling in love with him, which she told no one. Cassandra and Josephine would squeal like little girls and make it into a grand, romantic story, not understanding how little she wanted this. The relationship that was slowly unfurling between them scared her. What would he do when he found out the truth, that she was some time bomb simply waiting to wither away and die? He would hate her for lying. He would leave her more alone than she was now. 

Scout Harding asked her how she felt about corpses. The answer was, of course, that she didn’t have many positive feelings attached to them. Corpses? The undead were far beyond Maiwe’s realm of experience, and she would have much rather kept it that way. Apparently once you were Inquisitor, you lost the ability to say, “I’d much rather not fight those monsters, thank you very much.” 

Still waters as far as the eye could see, interspersed by small hillocks of land that yielded too much under each careful footfall. Don’t disturb the water. If you disturb the water, the corpses came in greater numbers. There must have been an endless supply to haunt these byways. The village they had passed through had been empty. “Plague,” was all Solas said, his voice low and ominous. Hopefully whatever disease it was had dissipated, did not hang around those old boards and caved in roofs to infect people who dare disturbed the peace. Even a simple cold could kill her, could ruin the fragile balance Maiwe had found in her body. Could the anchor save her from that? Doubtful. 

It wasn’t long before Maiwe saw her first corpse. There were three of them blocking the path- two with rusted swords, and one with a bow that looked as if it shouldn’t bend. She drew her own weapon automatically, loosing a few arrows as Cassandra charged forward, Solas and Dorian sending magical spells in that direction. The corpses went down surprisingly easily, with just a few hits. Their rusty swords simply slid off of the metal Cassandra wore, and they didn’t even come close to where the others waited. They fell so easily, crumbling back to the earth, as if finally realizing that this was what they were meant to do. 

The horror she felt as they crept closer to the now permanently felled bodies felt detached, abstract. It wasn’t so much that the dead had risen again. With everything in this state of upheaval, it hardly seemed the strangest thing. It was that when Maiwe looked at the archer, looked at the tangle of sinews and bones, she saw herself. The remains had no identifiable gender, yet she saw an echo of her own hand in those fingers that still curled around the body of the bow. It even had a few strings of hair left, their blonde only a few shades off from her own. This would be her, one day. Her tomb may be better, but she would rot all the same. 

Maiwe had never feared death before. It was a friend that was late, one that she kept expecting to come, but who failed to show up time and time again. Now the anchor on her hand burned, its pain surpassing even that of her broken lungs, and it reminded her of how much there was to lose. Everything she enjoyed could be gone in an instant, and it wouldn’t simply be her own, petty life affected. The anchor could defeat Corphyeus. The anchor held her rag tag group together. Everyone looked to her at guidance, but they couldn’t know that she balanced so unsteadily on that precipice from this world and that unknown darkness. 

“Inquisitor?” Solas’ voice brought her back down to earth. It was the same gentle concern he had exhibited for days now, since he had nearly unearthed her secret and ruined everything. He drew her aside, away from Dorian and Cassandra. Both of them watched closely, but they remained out of earshot. They knew something was wrong as much as Solas did, but their relationships to her lacked the same degree of intimacy. 

“I worry about you. I can heal so much, but I cannot heal what it is hidden from me.” He took her hands in his own, warming them. Her fingertips were slightly blue. 

Maiwe turned her gaze from Solas. It was too direct, too frank. “Tell me, Solas. What would you do if the whole world looked to you to save them? What would you do if you were a figure of religious awe for a god you don’t believe in? And what would you do if you had spent your whole life dying more swiftly than others? Believing your whole life that you were wholly expendable, a life easily discounted? How would you reconcile those two ideas? Because I can’t, and I’m afraid of what will happen.” That was more than she had intended to say. It slipped out, and there was no taking it back. 

Solas had no reply for that. Instead, his arms enfolded her, bringing Maiwe to his chest. Her ear lay against it, his heart beat regular. His breaths were so clean and even, so different from her own. “Later, vhenan, we will speak. Tonight. But know that you are not expendable. Not to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations threaten to spill. What is the value of a being? 
> 
> I swear more action is upcoming. I swear. And things will come to a head soon. JUST BARE WITH ME.

A campfire that seemed reluctant to throw light beyond the narrowest of margins. A breeze that got through every layer of clothing, caressed as gently as a kiss. In the distance, the blue of veilfire was visible, lighting the path they trod just hours before. Cassandra stood first watch, her back to the fire, eyes constantly scanning the water. They should have been safe enough, but repeated exposure to walking corpses was enough to unnerve even the toughest soul. Their flimsy shelter wouldn’t stand against flesh and bones. Dorian managed to sleep, Maker knew how. He had the next watch, so perhaps he felt sleep was necessary, despite the constant threat. 

Maiwe stared into the flames, trying to divine some deeper meaning than the play of light on dark. Solas had not yet broached their earlier conversation, but he would. She could feel him waiting for Dorian’s snores to have a deeper regularity, for Cassandra to pace a few more steps away in a restless circuit of the campsite. In that span of time where she owed no one any explanations, Maiwe simply let the fire seep into her aching joints, let the heat slowly release the pressure that had built up inside. As long as she stayed downwind of the smoke, she was fine. If that got into her lungs, she would cough until she expelled everything in her system, bile and mucus mixing together. It wasn’t a pretty sight. 

With camping spots as tight as this one, her secret was bound to emerge. Maiwe couldn’t maintain the necessary distance, couldn’t walk away into the dark to cough and feel each individual pain, working together to form a cacophonous mess. Panic added an extra layer to everything, made it difficult for her to take each individual breath. Everything could fall apart tonight, and she couldn’t even walk along the water to clear her head. Things lurked beneath the surface, and they would take her in an instant, leaving only a ripple. Maiwe was not so hopeless to believe that the world would be better off without her in it. Like it or not, the Mark had made her a figure in this world. It was just a question of how to maintain that stability. 

A hand on her shoulder. “May we speak now?” Of course. Solas wouldn’t forget. She nodded, chest not allowing enough air in and out to talk just yet. 

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to forget everything I said earlier.” There was a gentle smile on Solas’ face, but he still shook his head. No, of course not. But how much could she truly say? The truth wanted to come out, sat on her tongue, but if she told one of her loyal party members, she may as well tell them all. Or did their relationship necessitate that they tell each other their deepest secrets, that everything was laid bare between them? That was nonsense. Much of Solas was still a mystery to her, just as she was a mystery to him. Their whole initial attraction seemed to be based upon that. 

“I know you said you spent time amongst the Dalish, but you cannot truly know a Clan until you have lived in it. I think the shems see us as either idyllic or savage, but we’re somewhere in between.” Did she miss the Clan? Yes and no. Clan Lavellan had made her what she was today, had molded her, but they had also always made her role clear. 

“The sentimentality we give to Halla does not extend to other elves. You carry your weight, or you leave. If, for some reason beyond your control, you can’t make a useful contribution, then Clan seeks a peaceable way to dispose of you. You can go out with dignity. That was the path I chose.” Maiwe remembered that decision clearly. Had she truly wanted to die? It wasn’t that. She had just wanted the pain to stop, to feel needed and important and like she wasn’t an enormous burden on her entire extended family. In a quirk of fate, some of those wishes had been answered in the worst possible way. 

Silence stretched between them. Solas sat near her, an arm around her shoulder. Slowly, she allowed her body to fold into his, to let her head rest upon his shoulder. She released some of the tension she held all day in a sigh, focusing on a more manageable pain- the pain of walking all day, the deep and delicious ache in her back from pulling her bow back again and again. 

“I have walked many paths in the Fade. In my Journeys, I met many spirits of Compassion and Wisdom. Through our conversations, I learned that there exists no being who does not have a use, a purpose.” His hand stroked her hair gently, looping one tendril around a fingertip and giving it a playful tongue to lighten their whole conversation. It threatened to grow dangerously morose. If he knew the whole truth, would he still say the same words? Tears threatened, pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away. Maiwe was not accustomed to crying, not accustomed to feeling this much self-pity. It was not appropriate. 

“What if I could ruin the Inquisition in just a few words? What if I could cause the masses to lose faith in us? Would I still have a purpose then?” She hadn’t meant to challenge him, but she couldn’t take his words for what they were. He couldn’t see, didn’t know. 

“There is not a single person here who does not hold secrets. Some of them are darker than others. Nothing you say could diminish how remarkable you are.” How Maiwe wished those words were true. There was no use in arguing it any further, however. There was nothing more she could say without saying it all, and she was not quite ready for that. She could feel Solas’ curiosity, but he would have to live with not knowing. 

With the fire downwind of her, and with the warmth of another body against hers, leaving her safe and protected, Maiwe drifted off into an uneasy slumber.


	5. Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions are brought to life. 
> 
> It's sappy.

A cormorant was on her wall, wings outspread to collect all the rays of sunlight that came in through the windows. There was no literal bird; it was a painting, more of an abstraction than anything else. The lines conveyed the idea of a cormorant, the sleek curve of its neck, the madness in one blue eye. The area surrounding its beak was a vivid red, the color of fresh blood against the gray of the stone walls. The paint was still wet, adding an extra layer of vitality. The cormorant would sweep off the wall and perch on a chair, waiting for Maiwe to feed it fish. 

“Do you like it? I admit that the subject choice is… obscure.” Maiwe hadn’t even noticed that Solas was in her room. The cormorant’s presence masked even his own. She was still transfixed on it, alternately looking between him and the painting. “After our discussion, I thought you might enjoy a surprise. Something that shows your worth to me.” Solas was often painting his own space, endlessly touching up and adding to a mural that Maiwe couldn’t make sense of. She strongly suspected that he was painting other areas around Skyhold as well. There was a painting in the stables that looked like his work, but she had no actual evidence. It looked like his work. That Solas loved to paint was surprising, but it only added to his charm. Up until now, his work hadn’t crept into her personal space. It should have felt like an intrusion, but it was not. 

“It’s beautiful.” She didn’t question his subject choice. Solas had an interesting, unique mind, to say the least. Instead, Maiwe leaned forward and surprised him with a kiss, the lightest brush of her lips against his. She had put distance between them after their discussion at the Fallow Mire, but she could no longer avoid him, or pretend that her feelings were light and casual. 

Solas held a palette still, loosely gripped in one hand. A fit of child-like glee overcame Maiwe. Sticking one finger in the rapidly drying red paint, she solemnly gave Solas a war stripe, not unlike what the Kirkwall Champion was said to have worn across the bridge of her nose. On Solas, it just looked ridiculous, though it did bring out the color of his eyes, the way the grey in them shifted, uncertain where on the spectrum it wanted to fall. 

Such disobedience could not go unpunished. There was a playful side to Solas that so few got to see, something beyond his sharp wit. It softened him, masked his hard angles. It was something Maiwe increasingly longed to see. It got her out of bed in the morning, got her to leave warmth and comfort to face uncertainty and the knowledge that her day would be tinged with pain. While all of Skyhold looked to her, she looked to Solas, hoping for just a smile. It was enough to keep her going, when little else did.

Where Maiwe had just used one finger, Solas used three, smearing what was left of the blue paint across her forehead. The absurdity of the situation sunk in and Maiwe began to laugh long and hard. To think she was here, in this crumbling stone fortress, that she was this figure of religious awe, and she was in her room, having a paint fight like a small child. The laughter felt good, welling up from some place deep within her. A dam had been broken within her, and she laughed long and hard, far harder than the situation really called for. How long had it been since she had laughed like this? This was no sardonic chuckle. There was nothing false about it. It was pure and unadulterated, a laugh at how ridiculous life was, a laugh of joy at the fact she was presently alive. 

It was the kind of laughter that made her stomach hurt, made her face ache from the sheer force of smiling. It would have looked totally insane, had Solas not joined in with her, relief that all was well between them permeating the air.

Moments of happiness were all too fleeting. Within her stirred the beginnings of a cough, brought on by all the laughter. Abruptly, Maiwe shut her mouth, but it was too late. The tickle began deep at the base of her throat, rising ever upwards. The air in her chest tightened. Her eyes streamed as she tried to hold it back. It must have looked like she had simply laughed herself into tears, but her internal distress was real. No. This couldn’t happen. She had just begun to fix things, to put their relationship back where it should have been. Solas hadn’t asked any questions. He had been satisfied. Now it was all going to fall apart. 

The cough ripped out of her, bursting something in its progress. Maiwe covered her mouth with paint streaked hands, but she could not hide the noise, could not hide the shaking of her body as she coughed again and again, hard enough that a thin stream of bile came out of the corner of her mouth. She turned her back on Solas, willing him not to see. Her chest burned. Something felt wrong internally, but there was no healer here she trusted enough to let examine her. Things had gone wrong before. None of this was new- it just hadn’t happened in many months, since before the Convocation, before she became Inquisitor. It did not make the process any more pleasant. 

There was no longer just paint on her hands. The sticky mucus was nothing new, its green vivid against the red. That Maiwe could safely ignore. If she had to, she could lie and say she had come down with a chest cold. It wasn’t unheard of. It could just be a particularly brutal one. It was a lie she had made before, was prepared to make again. No, what was far harder to explain was the red that smeared alongside the dried paint. It was the red of blood. 

There was no way to hide it from Solas. Maiwe couldn’t ask him to leave. After he had painted her a gift, it would shatter everything as surely as a confession would. Her mind ran itself in circles, trying to think of a way out of the situation, some way she could explain it away or get him to leave before he saw the blood on her hands, but her thinking dragged on. 

“Please, let me look at that.” Solas had seen. Too late. Ashamed, Maiwe offered him one hand, the blood a silent witness to her lies. Her world would come crashing down now. Her body tensed in preparation for angry words, for accusations that would be all too true. She had lied to all of Thedas. They would never follow her now. Perhaps the Clan would take her back, let her live out the rest of her days in a measure of obscurity and indignity. 

“What caused this? Has this happened before?” Alarm in his clipped, precise tone. Genuine concern, but no anger. Maiwe drew back her hand and shrugged, not willing to meet his eyes. 

“Sometimes something breaks deep inside when I cough. I’ve been sick my entire life. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone, but I suppose there’s no hiding it now, is there? People will know their Herald of Andraste is nothing but a Dalish Clan reject. Will they still have faith in me when they know I could leave them so suddenly? Will they follow me when they know my weakness?” Sometimes secrets need to be told. Held deep inside, they fester, cause an infection that will not heal until they see the light of day. 

“All my life, I was told I’m going to die. Every year was a surprise to me. There’s no word for what I have, but I know people often don’t live long with it. Herbs and potions keep me going, but there’s no cure. I never expected to make it this far. I never asked for this responsibility. My plan was always to be alone.” Tears prickled at her eyes again. Crying so soon after the last time? Pathetic. Unforgivable. 

A hand on her chin, lifting it. One tear trailed down Solas’ fingers, lingering for a long moment before falling. His forehead leaned in towards hers, her eyes forced on his. Their blue and red paint intermingled where it hadn’t yet dried. 

“Plans made are rarely followed. If your wish is for me to tell no one, I will not. Her lips on his, a quiet desperation behind her kiss. There was blood there still, transferred to his own lips, but neither cared. His arms gripped hers tightly, pulling her closer to him so that they were one being instead of two, an individual made of pain and suffering, but tinged with that hope that it could all go away, even for a short time. 

“Vhenan,” he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I lie at a very important crossroads.
> 
> Do I make it smutty or not? Abrupt chapter ending as I dwell on that.

“This is the Fade, isn’t it?” Maiwe’s fingers were intertwined with Solas’ as they walked slowly through the Exalted Plains. It was remarkably quiet, and though they had walked for some time, her chest felt unburdened, her entire body lighter than normal. The ever present ache in her joints was just a distant memory, leaving her so light that she could take wing and fly away, leaving everything behind. It was a heady feeling, one that she knew she would be loath to give up. There was a danger in this that she had not even considered before. How could Solas ever bring himself to leave?  


This was the Exalted Plains as they once were. The grass was still green, and trees held themselves with pride, instead of drooping in an imitation of sorrow.  
They stood near stone arches. There were many such that littered the Plains, and most were a mystery to Maiwe. There had been a Rift in these ruins when she had explored it earlier, in the world of flesh and blood. There had also been mysterious elven glyphs that translated to knowledge of ruins. It had been fascinating, but neither had said much about what the building used to be.  


Now, all that Time had worn down, the Fade undid. The columns and stone were restored to their full glory, vines ripped from the cracks, stone perfectly mortared. The steps, once leading to nothing, now lead to tubs of steaming water, the heat a muted sensation in this land of dreams. From the corner of her eye, Maiwe could see ghostly figures move, but they vanished when she turned to look at them head on. She and Solas were alone here, in this perfect image of the past.  
“You asked me earlier what was here. I thought it was best to show you.” The shock that accompanied her first times in the Fade was now gone, replaced by a certain knowledge that there was safety here. Solas was an expert, and could manipulate even this strange land to follow specific rules that she could not quite wrap her head around. That he wanted to show her, rather than simply tell, about the baths, spoke volumes to Maiwe. It was admitting that they had a shared history, that in their blood ran the blood of the elvhen. The commonality seemed to be something he had avoided up until now, as if they didn’t both have pointed ears, as if the derision they faced was not one and the same.  


Maiwe could forgive him much for this. Though her physical senses felt dulled here, it was not unpleasant. To be without pain, even in dreams, was a rare wonder. The steam rising from the warm water brought with it layers of comfort, swaddling her against daylight cruelties and realities. That she could walk in this world, that she could breathe its air… It was beyond words.  


As if he could read her mind, Solas spoke again, gently pulling her closer to the water’s edge. “You could go in, if you wish. Everything was as it was many years ago, though we lack the company we would have then.” When he spoke of the past, Solas’ voice took on a sing song quality, a rhythm to rival any bard.  
“Shall we?”


	7. More than Fade Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get steamy. Literally. NSFW.

Maiwe had never felt more inadequate. Even in Fade, she felt her own inadequacy keenly, the places where her bones poked through, where she was hard instead of soft, those very few areas where she was too soft where she should have been hard. Intimacy had never been a priority. It was nice, but it wasn’t expected. Who would get close to her when she could die so suddenly, leave so soon? Not only that she could, but that she would, that it was inevitable that any partner would outlive her for years. The risk of growing attached was too great. It had been years since she had let anyone look upon her in any state of undress. Even in dreams.  


Still, her hands rose to pull off her over tunic, stripping it away. Everything still felt wrong. In the Fade, her ribs should not have been visible, her entire rib cage not as wide and distended as it always felt. Even here, she could not avoid the flaws that plagued her in real life.  


To Maiwe’s surprise, Solas did not turn away in disgust. He watched, the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth. He echoed her actions, stripping away his own over tunic. He was lean, his muscles evident but not overpowering. When she compared herself to him, when she lined their bodies side by side, her face burned. She may not have deserved what the mark had inflicted on her, but neither did she deserve this kind of happiness, having someone be so attentive to her pitiful flesh.  


Seeing her hesitation, Solas removed the rest of his clothing first, stepping into the water. It behaved as water should, rippling away from his body. The steam parted around his form. Even the Fade had to conform to some of nature’s rules, even as it flaunted the rest. Water was water. It would flow, transform itself into steam, and fall back to earth.  


He still encouraged her wordlessly, with hand gestures and an appreciation in his half-hooded eyes. If he had not turned away when the upper half of her was bared to the elements, he would not turn away now. What a marvel that was.  


Her back to him, she removed the rest of the clothing. Still not looking at Solas, Maiwe entered the water, felt the heat of it rise up to meet her. Even muted as it was, it felt wonderful. Dreams could easily best reality.  


Solas wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. They kissed, heads moving together in mutual accord.  


“This time, I’m positive that you’ve initiated Fade tongue.” Solas shook his head at Maiwe’s words before lifting her slightly, allowing the buoyancy of the water to take the majority of her weight. Her legs clasped around his waist as her arms joined behind his neck, one hand stroking the nape as they kissed again, deeper. To kiss in the Fade was one thing. To do anything else... How did it differ from real life? How much did actions done in the Fade reverberate back? This was all a dream... but it wasn't. Maiwe knew that when she awoke, she would remember every detail perfectly. It would be fodder to play over and over again on nights when she was alone.  


Too much thinking, not enough doing. The gentlest of nibbles brought her back, put her in the moment. Without grounding, one day she would drift off entirely. Maiwe was too used to living in her head, disregarding the physical.  


It was impossible to ignore what happened next, that feeling of being parted gently, and then with increasing firmness. In dreams, unlike reality, the water was a pleasant addition, a warmth that added to what she generated deep inside. The steam that rose seemed to come directly from their bodies, every thrust contributing more and more. Without her weight to sap his energy, Solas was able to pay full attention to the task at hand, supporting her easily, even when her fingers dug into his flesh, leaving red crescents on his back. She would kiss each mark later, an apology without words, but first she had to mark him, breathing growing ragged. That it was not her usual breathlessness was a relief. To be drained of air like this was okay. This she could handle. This felt normal. 

In dreams, there are none of the disappointments of life. Their union ended together, her cry muffled into the flesh of his shoulder, his a groan that would have embarrassed her had the ghostly figures been more solid. They stayed together for a minute afterward, too exhausted to move. Maiwe knew that when she woke, she wouldn't have rested at all, but she found it difficult to care.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole knows too much. Maiwe's shell hardens.

Skyhold had become synonymous with home. How strange it was that this drafty stone pile could bring her comfort nowhere else ever had. The sheer relief of falling into her bed after traveling for many days… Maiwe could not even verbalize it. Skyhold was her everything, her sanity, keeper of her secrets. When Solas was not around, or when she didn’t feel like talking to him, Maiwe would lie back and simply whisper things out loud. If there were spirits residing within the walls, they knew everything about her- every thought, every worry, every happy moment. It was no longer just a building. It was something more, an entity in its own right, who had moods as mercurial as any child. The wind passing through cracks told her stories of how things used to be, of the rich history of the place. There was always more to discover here. Truly, Maiwe could spend weeks within the keep and not run out of things to find.

For example, she had not known that the tavern connected to a grumbling old stone tower. You could run from one to the other easily- something the soldiers on watch must have appreciated. How often did they exchange duty for drinking, only to stumble out long enough to be seen? It was something she should bring up to Cullen. No, let them have their fun. There was no way anyone could scale the mountains that surrounded Skyhold. Not without being incredibly obvious. 

In this dusty attic filled with remnants of hundreds of years of occupants, Maiwe found Cole. There were some books scattered about- silly things, children’s stories, tales of gods and kings. They looked newer than anything else in the room. Come to think of it, someone in the library had mentioned books going missing, but had also said they weren’t terribly important. It was more the idea of it, that someone could so easily misplace their precious tomes. Well, apparently they had all ended up here, as well as a quantity of sweets from the kitchens, and, oddly enough, a rather large pile of turnips, starting to go brown and soft. That was several more mysteries solved. 

“Cole. What are you doing up here?” Did he spend all day in this lonely place? No. Maiwe had seen Cole about before, healing and then vanishing. Only a few seemed to remember his visits, which seemed to suit the spirit just fine. There was so much yet to learn about Cole. 

“Your light flickers. Why does it flicker? You hide it, want to snuff it out. Why?” She shouldn’t have been startled at her words. Solas had said numerous times that Cole as a spirit, specifically of Compassion. Her pain was hidden, but not well. The walls she had erected within herself were nothing to a being like Cole, who could see everything in the space of time it took for her to blink. Yet his words took her aback, left her with her mouth gaping open slightly. Cole continued to speak, trying to puzzle out the Inquisitor as much as she tried to figure out him. 

“Corruption, creeping. Roses growing inside, thorns making it hard to breathe, impossible to pick. Secrets that overtake it all.” He was finished now, looking at her from beneath his hat, eyes impossible to read. So much of him was impossible. He knew. Someone she had not told knew. “Cole…” How could she tell him off? Maiwe saw him as being so innocent, almost childlike. Perhaps that wasn’t the best interpretation of his nature. Perhaps she misjudged Cole, but she could not bring herself to be mean to him, to lash out with harsh words and feeble defenses, as much as she wanted to. He would see through it all, and he would know. Worse, he would be nothing but kind to her, when she deserved none of it. 

“Please. You can’t tell anyone. This hurt is mine alone. Solas knows, but even him… Just don’t speak about it. I’m the only one who can make this right.” You can’t help, she wanted to say. No one can help. Maiwe retreated inside herself, forgetting even that Solas had not judged her, had taken her words and loved her regardless. 

He looked puzzled, hurt, hands reaching up and then falling to his side, fingers half open. This wasn’t she had wanted at all, but it was necessary. Solas had already grown too close to her. She couldn’t subject Cole to it as well, to wondering when she might die, when she might pass in the night, lips blue. By rights, she should push Solas away as well. She should push them all away.


	9. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Solas is a grounding force.
> 
> Perhaps the first chapter I felt like I really got the balance between Maiwe's internal thought processes and the difficulties she goes through balanced well with the romance. Please let me know what you think. Your comments really encourage me to keep going.

They had brought in an Orlesian dancing master just for her, convinced that if they did not, Maiwe would somehow embarrass the entire Inquisition at the Halamshiral event. Though that was an entirely fair assessment, it was just one more thing to worry about, an added layer of stress when she was trying so hard to always remain calm and centered. The anxiety excited the inflammation, making her lungs crackle in small protests. Once again, Maiwe found herself turning ever inward. Cole and Solas now knew her secret, yet she could not bring herself to confide in them. Cole would only be hurt that he could not help more, while Solas still held things from her, a distance that prevented her from spilling everything in her mind to him. He had his own troubles; Maiwe could not give him more.

It didn’t help that she apparently could not even manage the most basic steps. It required relinquishing control to this foppish man, to let him place a hand on her waist far too intimately. His smiles always had an element of a leer to them. One should not overthinking dancing, but Maiwe overthought everything, tripping over her own feet, and those of the increasingly less patient instructor. Josephine must have been paying him very well because he stayed, though he smiled less and less with each lesson. 

Advice like “feel the music” didn’t much help. Maiwe simply couldn’t- not while she was thinking where to put her feet, thinking of what would happen if she could not learn at least one courtly dance somewhat proficiently. The Dalish had no equivalent of the Game. Politics this complex was a uniquely human invention, or so Maiwe thought. 

Another lesson passed in which she tripped and stumbled, pulling away when she should have moved with the dancing master, running into him when she should have been stepping gracefully back. She could move through a forest quietly, run across the wet stones that pushed out from beneath the surface, but she could not dance. Worse yet, today she had an audience. Josephine and Cassandra shook their heads, but could not offer her any practical advice. They could only shrug, encourage her to keep at it, and hope that when the day actually came, Maiwe had absorbed some grace. 

Left alone in the echoing stone room where she practiced, Maiwe tried to collect herself. It shouldn’t have been this frustrating. Tension made her back ache. Her lungs burned with coughing that she had suppressed, unwilling to let the Orlesian stranger see. Who knew what gossip he was already spreading to his fellow countrymen? The Inquisitor was an oaf, an unsophisticated elf fresh from the aravel, who would never master the nuances of human activities. 

“Please, allow me to assist you.” Solas had stayed behind, watching as Maiwe hung her head, shoulders stooping downward. He had seen it all. Fantastic. What a royal idiot he must have found her. Provincial, uncultured, someone who could not let go of her Clan enough to ever become something more. 

Still, when he extended his hand to her and simply waited, she found herself taking it. He knew so much about her. He knew her major failing, the illness that marked and defined every choice she made in life. What was a lack in dancing skill compared to that? The worst that could happen was that she would stay the same. It’s not as if she could become any worse at it. 

He took her hand in his own, squeezing it slightly. Much like the instructor, Solas placed the other hand at the small of her back, but he did not cling too tightly. Solas had already had it all; he had no reason to hold her against her will. Maiwe had given it freely to him once before. 

“There is no music.” Was that a tremor in her voice? Maker, why did he still render her a child, struck dumb by beauty? Inside, her heart hammered. Why couldn’t he hear it? It was so loud in her ears. 

“The music simply adds another layer of complication. Feel me. Move with me.” This was not so different from that night in the Fade, when their actions had mirrored each other so perfectly. True, that had been a dream, but it had also been real. Didn’t it? She was overthinking things once more. 

Solas could see it on her face. He knew her well enough at this point, that even with her guard up, he could see the worry, the fear that seemed so constant. “Vhenan.” A single word, said in no more than a whisper, and she was brought back to the here and now. 

It would not be fair to say that she magically became an apt dancer. Maiwe still found herself tripping over Solas’ long legs, but he did not frown. Instead, he would smile, sometimes even laugh, which made her laugh in turn. The whole exercise became less serious with him there, the tension that had held her so ramrod straight slowly unraveling, vertebrae by vertebrae down her back. 

“Where did you learn to dance so well?” He was so much more graceful than she was, his movements always assured. Given what she knew of his past (precious little that there was), when did he have time? 

Solas’ smile was enigmatic. It was an expression on his face too often. It infuriated her as much as it drew her in. “I have seen many things in the Fade. I have had many experiences. Battles are not the only event that leave an undeniable mark.” Maiwe wanted to ask more, but he moved her before she could, dipping her low, so that her blonde hair just trailed the stone floor. When he drew her up again, the sweat that beaded his forehead was irresistible, a sign of imperfection and reality in this impossible man. 

“You will have to bring me back to the Fade to show me again.” Teasing, voice light. She ached now, from the long hours of practice, but it was a pleasant ache, so different from how she usually felt. “We can go there tonight, if you will allow me.” Said directly into her ear, a shiver down her spine. Oh yes. She would allow him.


	10. Death in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which clan Lavellan dies.

“Inquisitor. Message for you.” Rubbing exhaustion from her eyes, Maiwe rose from her desk and took the slim piece of parchment, cutting open the wax seal as neatly as possible. It was the same seal that all the Inquisition scouts used, so she expected nothing out of the ordinary. More requests for aid, maybe a statement detailing whether they had managed to resettle the area surrounding Redcliffe Castle well. That was the routine, one she had grown comfortable with, though it did not make it any less tiresome. Too many papers she personally had to sign, too many tasks she personally had to do. There was an ache deep in her neck that need to be slowly massaged out. Her lips tugged briefly upward as she considered the possibility of asking Solas to do just that.

A spidery hand that made ill-formed letters made it nearly impossible for her to read the missive. I regret to say that Clan Lavellan suffered total casualties following the failure of Duke Wymcome’s troops to arrive in time. We grieve with you in this loss.Her hands dropped the paper, letting it drift slowly downward to rest in the general detritus that was her workspace. Even there, it seemed to stand out, stained red in her imagination.

Total losses, and she felt only numb. Her mind was unable to conceive of a world where her parents did not exist, where her father would not tweak her nose and call her his little bird. Maiwe had never intended to go back, but the option had always been there, tantalizing. Why did she suddenly idolize her clan and their way of life? It looked so tempting now that the path was blocked from her. An entire group of people who knew about her illness. They judged her for it, but they were not angry at her. Not like the people of Thedas would be when they found out. Maybe they had not loved her as they should, but what love they had had no conditions. They loved her meekly, but they loved her knowing that she was sickly, dying ever more quickly.

Still, she could not bring herself to cry. Images of idyllic summer days spent by the day were just as quickly overtaken by the rejections she had faced, memories of the Keeper shuffling her from role to role within the clan, trying to find something she could do. There were memories of the Keeper telling her parents it would be kindest to let her die. Memories of being a burden, with no end in sight. They had sent her to die. memories of everyone telling her this was the only way she could repay the clan for the years of resources she had consumed.

But they were her own flesh and blood. They were her family and her friends. Her first lover, gone. The way he had looked at her would never be repeated. Not for Maiwe. Not for any other woman. The way the halla nuzzled her hair when she was upset, a moody teenager. They were gone too, just as dead as the rest of the family. The thought of the proud halla, white hides marred with gore, was what made the tears come. They traveled aching slowly, as if reluctant to appear at all, following the lines of her vallaslin down. They did not flow heavily enough to fall from her cheeks. 

Was she heartless? The overwhelming sensation was still one of feeling almost nothing. This couldn’t be right. Had she hardened herself so entirely that she could not grieve, could only weep for the animals? Was this shell of a person all that was left of Maiwe Lavellan? Was this the legacy of the clan? She was their name now, all that was left, and she could not even mourn that. She could just think of the halla, legs stiff, unable to shake the image. 

A hand on her shoulder. How long had she been staring into space? Maiwe’s eyes ached with the tears she could not shed. When she looked up, her vision was dry and blurred; she was no longer crying. “Lavellan is dead.” Her voice was a croak, lacking melody or inflection. She knew it was Solas, would recognize the weight of his palm and the shape of his fingers anywhere. His touch was always so light, but it was familiar, and she leaned into it, hoping to draw strength from it. Instead, she felt only the resistance of bone and muscle. 

And still Solas said nothing. When she craned her neck to see his face, she saw him searching for words that would not come. Maiwe had never seen him lost like this before, his mouth opening and then his head shaking, words unsaid. She turned away from him to stare down at the paper again, willing the ink to reform, to change, to say that everything would be fine. “Lavellan is dead and I cannot even weep.” 

“Families are… complicated.” Finally Solas spoke. He sounded emphatic, but she could hear the pauses between words, the spaces that he tried to fill as carefully as possible. “We feel we should love them despite what they’ve done. When they are gone, we see only the positives that defined our relationships, and never the harsh words, the fighting and the spite.” The weight of personal experience drove his words home. He knew little of her home life, and what Maiwe had told him had not cast them in the most generous light. He did not see what support they had given, how they had formed and shaped her into the woman she was today. Without them, she would not be the Inquisitor. 

“You see the ill in the Dalish all too readily. They were my family, and for every misstep they took, I believe they loved me as much as they could. I was not an easy child. I am not easy to love now.” Where normally she would offer a wan smile, Maiwe still looked down, even though she felt her shoulder squeezed lightly. She felt cold to the world. 

“Not everyone mourns in the same way, vhenan.” The last word was an arrow to her heart, piercing her with guilt. She did not deserve him. “You are expecting a simple reaction to a complex situation.” In this, at least, he was correct. Tears could not possibly cover the range of emotions she was feeling. Instead, she felt only nausea, a roiling in her stomach that would not stop. Her skin was white as snow. 

Gently, an arm snaked under her own, pulling her into a standing position. Solas guided her toward the bed until her legs no longer seemed to work, and she could collapse, still sitting upright, onto the soft mattress. Maiwe had no memory of walking there; to her, it seemed as if one minute she had been reading the missive again and again, and the next, she was here. Everything was moving too slowly. Her brain was sluggish, thoughts unable to complete themselves. Nothing seemed to be reaching a natural conclusion. 

Slowly, she was pulled down onto the bed, until her head sank into the pillow. She was only vaguely aware that Solas had his arms about her, that he cradled her against him like she was a child. She wanted to complain, but nothing would come out still. The silence began to feel impressive. 

“I lost my family when I was young and rash. Many blamed it upon me. Regardless of how we had fought with each other, of the people they had become, I miss them. I wonder if I should have done things differently.” Solas so rarely volunteered information of his past life. When he did, Maiwe listened. There was a sincerity, and openness to him that came so rarely. He laid everything bare on the table, and while he opened as many questions as he answered, she kept silent. Her only response was to press her body closer to his. Her eyes felt wet; she mourned not for her own losses, but for Solas’. He seemed so alone at times, lost. They all walked their same paths, and she felt lucky that theirs had converged. 

Their breaths rose and fell as one , evening out slowly. In their shared warmth, they mourned.


	11. Secrets Spilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out, and leads to argument and alienation.

In the wake of Halamshiral, her secret had emerged. It did not matter how- someone overheard her, or saw something. It only mattered that they knew, and that the word was spreading through Skyhold far too quickly. When Maiwe went down the stairs for breakfast, there was a lull in conversation, as a few dozen faces tried desperately not to stare. Their eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth, making it all the more obvious. The whispers started a beat later, followed by more askance glances. Her face burned red. There was only one thing they could be discussing. She had not made so many mistakes in Halamshiral that ordinary soldiers would gossip about it. Her relationship with Solas, while controversial, was by and large respected. There was only her illness, which she had thought was perfectly hidden. Evidently, she had not been as careful as she imagined.

After breakfast, all she had to do was lift a finger. They gathered in the war room- Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana. Doubtless her other close companions would want to have a say, but the advisors would voice their opinions first. 

All three had grim expressions. They tried to coat them in wan smiles, but they were easy to see through. The headache that had threatened to emerge since breakfast broke free, pounding in her temples. Maiwe had never wanted to face this issue. She had lied. There was no talking her way around that. 

“Tell me first how this will affect our standing in the world. Tell me that I have not ruined the Inquisition with my stupidity.” Still no one smiled. If anything, they looked slightly more grim. 

“Our noble allies may think slightly less of us.” Josephine spoke first. Her voice was quiet, smaller than Maiwe had ever heard it before. She did not look up from the paper she was reading. “Two houses of minor nobility have already retracted their pledges. The rest are waiting to see what happened. They have not forgotten that you closed the largest Rift.” 

Leliana was next, ever frank. “There are whispers that you are hiding worse secrets. Some think you are dying. I’ve dispatched agents to counteract this, but the rumors are persistent.” Her fingers twitched- it was clear she would rather be out supervising than stuck here, talking to a shame faced Inquisitor. This was a knot that could take years to untangle. 

“The army has seen you fight before. They know you are capable. Some whisper that your strength will fail. I’ve done my best to discipline any who say it.” Cullen was curt, but he brought the best news of the day. Maiwe could have leapt into his arms at that. It was the faintest glimmer of hope that she was not being abandoned just yet. 

“And, forgive me for asking so bluntly, what is the truth?” Josephine finally looked up, expectant, waiting. They all wanted her to say she was fine, that it was merely a temporary setback. She could not lie anymore. 

“I am not dying. I have not grow any worse since the Anchor appeared. But I am not growing better. I have pains. My lungs don’t work as they should- it’s like vines grow inside, choking the airways, their thorns sometimes piercing through. But I have no intention of dying and leaving this Inquisition without a head any time soon.” Maiwe attempted another smile, but could not feel it inside. The light was absent from her eyes. 

The three began to speak among themselves, as if she was not there. Their voices were heated- as always, each though they knew the best solution.They did not directly accuse her, but they did not have to. Every time they said ‘the situation’ or ‘this mess’, Maiwe cringed internally. If only she had been honest from the start… Then none of this would have happened. That her illness should become public was devastating, but at least it came at a time when people had faith in her. If she just continued to tell herself that things could have been far worse, perhaps it would eventually come true. 

“Excuse me for a moment.” They did not need her there. While part of Maiwe recognized it was childish to simply walk away, she could not stop herself. It took every ounce of willpower to walk out with her head held high, be under the scrutiny of her troops, her men. They watched her enter her door, but did not see her lean against it as it closed, or the way her shoulders sagged as she walked up the stairs. The journey up felt endless. 

All she wanted was to collapse back into bed, to pull the covers over her head and recreate that childhood willfulness to pretend the outside world didn’t exist. That was not to be. 

Solas waited for her inside the room. He said nothing, simply holding his arms out. She folded into them gracefully, head rested against his chest. “They know.” Her voice was muffled, but he heard her. 

“Things will change, but you can turn them for the better.” There was a rumble inside him when he spoke. It drowned out his heartbeat, the mixture of vibrations comforting. 

“You didn’t tell.” She needed confirmation, but instead received his body stiffening, as Solas stepped away from her. 

“Do you truly think I could?” How could she say yes without offending him further? How could she explain that no one was above suspicion? Her silence said all that her voice could not. 

“I will speak to you later.” He turned and left, just like that. With those words, she was alone.


	12. The Heaviest Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aww, she didn't mess things up irredeemably.

The emptiness of the Hissing Wastes was a perfect externalization of what Maiwe felt inside. The hot wind made the sand scour her skin, the movement of the tiny grains most of what could be seen in this bleak landscape. Every step in the sand was difficult. It sucked her feet downward, adding extra weight. She was so tired already; Maiwe had not slept well since the knowledge of her condition became public. She had fought for so hard and for what seemed like so long, only to feel like she stood on the brink of a very steep cliff, with the wind blowing her closer and closer to falling off. 

“Inquisitor. Maiwe.” Cassandra had fallen back to walk at Maiwe’s side. It was unusual to hear the Seeker use her first name. Even when they discussed things of a personal nature or when Cassandra slipped her a few novels on the sly, she always used the title. How pathetic did Maiwe look that Cassandra spoke to her in that gentle tone? It was as if she spoke to a child; not in an entirely negative way, but wrapped in an extra layer of kindness that most adults did not warrant. It hurt Maiwe to hear it. Cassandra deserved a better leader than this. 

“Do you all hate me now? I am surprised no one has left.” No one of the immediate party, anyway. Maiwe could not keep track of all the comings and goings at Skyhold, but she knew that people murmured now, and that even the most devout were having a serious crisis of faith. She was but one person, but her life had become interconnected with hundreds, if not thousands, more. 

“No one hates you. Some will find their Faith in the Maker somewhat unsteady.” Cassandra did not meet her eyes. They walk for another minute in silence, only the sand that constantly shifted underfoot making noise. 

“And you? I lied to you. I concealed part of myself.” If Maiwe’s tone was bitter and angry, it was directed entirely toward herself. 

“No. If Andraste truly sent you, then I still believe in you. It is but one more challenge, and it will make you stronger.” Silence as a response. It seemed cruel to deny that she was Andraste’s herald now. Maiwe had shaken Cassandra’s faith enough for a life time. 

She was left to her thoughts as Cassandra took the lead once more, marching to a destination marked in question marks upon a worn map. A patrol had gone missing. These men were Maiwe’s responsibility. It was something concrete, something she could cling to. She could save these men. Selfishly, she hoped they had not heard yet that their Inquisitor was inflicted with a sickness that could not be healed. To this small band, she may yet be a hero and not a liar. 

With the mid day sun beating down upon their necks, they arrived at where the patrol should have been. The hair on the back of Maiwe’s neck stood up despite the heat. Something was very wrong here and she was not the only one who sensed it. Both Dorian and Solas had their magic ready, staves glimmering even in the washed out light. Cassandra’s sword and shield were held up at the ready. They only waited for Maiwe to give the word.

She took the front, arrow at the ready. The quiet here seemed almost magically enforced. Not even the ever present fennecs roamed these dunes. Eyes on the horizon, Maiwe did not heed her steps until she ran into something solid, her boot hitting it without the slightest noise of anything breaking. She knelt, brushing away debris to find a human skull, strips of flesh and hair still clinging to it. It was dehydrated and the rest of the body lay somewhere out there, but she did not think it had been long since this was someone alive. Even while it sank, her gut told her that this was one of the lost patrol options.

“Inquisitor. On your left!” A blast of fire went perilously close to her face, hitting the spider that had been approaching from some shadowed rocks. Five more appeared in short order, scuttling over the sand on too many legs, fangs at the ready. 

“Spiders, joy. Have I mentioned how much I loathe spiders?” Even in battle, Dorian had a quip ready. His humor was why Maiwe had brought him along today. She needed all the levity she could get. And why was Solas there? They had not spoken since she had lashed out at him, but the hurt on his face could not completely hide the concern. He cared for her deeply, even though she had tried to push him away. Though she felt so utterly and completely alone, Solas was there, waiting for her, if she could just forgive her pride enough to apologize. 

Spiders were short work for the four of them at this point. It felt as if they had fought hundreds of them. As long as they had no venom, they were relatively easy to dispatch. They could walk away with no scrapes, but this was borne out of often painful experience. Those sent out on patrol usually had some hunting skills, but oftentimes it wasn’t much more than taking rams down for meat. That they could hold a bow the right way up was qualifier enough when so many unskilled came in, begging for a place within the Inquisition. They should have had more training. Maiwe should have overseen it, should have made sure that no one left Skyhold without the ability to survive. Instead, she had folded in on herself, concerned entirely with people’s perception of her, and how to hide her health. Her selfishness had led to these deaths, however indirectly. 

“This is my fault.” She did not realize she spoke out loud until Dorian, Cassandra, and Solas all turned to look at her. She could not stand the pity on their faces. “I should have done more to protect them. I should have made sure they had enough training. I send them out when they’re little more than children. These deaths are mine.” Solas was the one who stepped forward first, his arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace. Instead of fighting it as she should have, Maiwe allowed herself further weakness. She allowed herself to cry.


	13. Barren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas forgives Maiwe. NSFW.

In the safety of her tent, Maiwe indulged herself in further misery. It fed itself now, a perpetual cycle of unhappiness that she could not break out of. She just fell further into it, blaming herself for everything that had gone wrong. Tonight, she even blamed herself for her health problems, as if she could have changed things when she was still in the womb. Huddled beneath the safety of a fur, a barrier against the cold desert night, Maiwe allowed herself to cry once more, trying to be silent. 

A ray of moonlight came in, as piercing as the sun. She shielded her blurry, aching eyes, her voice not coming out at all- nothing more than a harsh, choking noise. Maiwe was not someone who looked beautiful when weeping. Her eyes were red and inflamed. Her nose ran, and her breathing grew labored as she struggled to manage the physical effort that crying sometimes took. In short, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her like this, in this pathetic weakness. It was the bottom, and she had wallowed in it. 

“Maiwe.” Her voice sounded strange on his tongue. Solas was weary. It soaked into every word, no doubt soaked into his bones. They had all been fighting for too long. Her pain may have been more literal than his, but it did not make his any less real. It was something Maiwe was only beginning to realize. Shame was added to the burden on her shoulders, but she could not stop herself from lifting her head, from letting her eyes meet his own. His face was too familiar and she loved it too much to let it go or push it away, no matter how hard she threatened otherwise. 

“I’m sorry I accused you of telling everyone I was ill. I knew that you would never do that, but I was so angry. I lashed out. I am filled with anger and sorrow and regrets. I am too imperfect for this. For the Inquisition. For you.” Nothing remained but the sense of being hollowed; her emotions had been scooped out and laid bare on the sand. There was no Maiwe. There was just a shell of an elf, lungs scarred and barely working. 

“You are like no one I have ever met before. I could not imagine that all the paths I have walked in the Fade would lead me here, to you.” Solas knelt before, cupping her face in his hand. His thumb brushed away a stray tear and she smiled slightly in spite of herself. If she had no faith in herself, others had enough to fill her up, to keep her going despite how heavy each step felt, no matter how much sand threatened to drag her down. 

“If you had known that your journeys would bring you to someone crying and red faced and leaking snot, I think you would have turned and ran given the first opportunity.” The inevitable clean up was always the worst part of indulging in misery. Maiwe would have rather fought five more spiders than have her face be seen like this. Not by Solas. Not by anyone, if she was being honest. It was not a look that suited the grand title of Inquisitor. It was not a look that particularly suited anyone, but Maiwe had yet to unlock the secret of those women who looked like delicate, ethereal princesses when they wept. It had not been a priority in her life. 

Solas did not answer with words. He knew that Maiwe would only fight them, would try and come up with some retort to comfortably deny anything positive he said. It was her way and he had accepted it as part of her being. Foolish, stubborn elf. She had taken a firm grip on his equally foolish and stubborn old heart. 

Maiwe’s first instinct was indeed to fight the kiss, to proclaim that she was not worthy, that she was an absolute mess. But when his lips were on her own, she found it hard to do so. It became increasingly more difficult to feel sorrow at all. It was overwhelmed by something else, her anger twisting itself into another emotion entirely. 

She bit down on his lip, eager hands moving over his body, frantically tugging at his shirt until he obliged her and pulled it off. His body was always a marvel to her- so lean, the muscles there but not overbearing. His hunger matched her own, as if this span of several days when they had not spoken had been a famine. It was not as if they were young teenaged lovers, unable to resist touching each other, but in this emotional aftermath that is what they acted like, hands straying where they would, layers of clothing becoming progressively less and they pulled and unbuttoned with shaking, urgent fingers. Their lips rarely parted, and although Maiwe could not properly take a breath, she did not care. That small undercurrent of anger at herself remained. 

Her lips moved down his face, pausing at his neck. She took the skin gently between her teeth and bit down. It would mark him, but who could protest? He had marked her once before, took the opportunity to do so now, moving down to take her breasts, to leave the imprint of his teeth on the pale flesh so that she gasped and inhaled sharply, the sudden pain flooding her with endorphins. 

They tussled for control, not seriously but playfully, their smiles showing slightly too many teeth. It ended in an arrangement that pleased both- Maiwe on top, where the pressure on her chest was not so bad, Solas on the bottom, where he could freely admire his earlier handiwork. She took him harder than she meant to, but encouraged it, her words low and barely distinguishable, encouraging him still deeper. If she was not filled by happiness, lust would have to do, and a later, languid contentment in his arms until she roused him once more, hands and mouth teasing.


	14. Telana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maiwe finds comfort in tales, even as cracks in her relationship with Solas begin to appear.

They spent that night in the company of a spirit. That in itself was not unusual, but that they knew who the spirit was, what she had wanted before she died, was different. It added an expected weight to the area, though they pitched their tents as far from the spirit’s resting place as possible. On a small island, there was not a great distance they could cover, and even as the sun fell, Maiwe could still see the outline of the shack against the fading light. It was such a lonely place; how had it felt to die here, knowing she was alone, waiting in the hopes that Ameridan would come again? They had come here for information, but none of them had expected this. They were all silent that night. Cassandra and Varric stared deep into the fire, perhaps imagining how this would be spun in a romance novel. Solas looked outward, across the restless waters, while Maiwe could not tear her gaze from where they had met Telana’s remnant. It had been a shadow of her, but Maiwe felt the impact now, hours later. 

There were parallels emerging between herself and Ameridan that brought only discomfort. They had both been elves; Kenric even believed that Ameridan may have been Dalish, though what god he had marked himself with no one knew. They both had taken mages for lovers, against the better advice of many. Her eyes sought Solas, relieved that he was still there. Would he be left waiting for her one day? Worse yet, would she be left waiting for him? Maiwe could not simply sit and think; she had to stretch her legs, had to roam. She nodded once to Solas, hoping he would stop whatever contemplations he was engaged in long enough to join her. 

Like a shadow, he followed. He said nothing even as they went back to the shack, even as Maiwe let her hands trail over the weathered boards. They had given her a proper burial, but it did not feel like enough. They had taken from her too- her story, clues about Ameridan, her bow. Even now Maiwe held the weapon, had drawn blood from a small group of Hakkonites earlier. The bow seemed to be too well preserved to have belonged to Telana, but stranger magic rested in the palm of her hand, closing the rift that had plagued even this small island. Still, she was a thief here, even if she felt that Telana’s spirit could now rest. 

Gently, Solas picked up her hands, guided them away from the splinters and boards that remained and took them in his own. “The spirit rests now, and we know how Ameridan died. They can join together now, when we find Ameridan. They can dream together.” But it was not enough for her. It would not be enough until they found the first Inquisitor and solved the mystery in full, until they released his spirit to join hers. Maiwe had a terrible, sinking feeling deep in her stomach that said he did not rest. How could he, when he did not know the fate of his lover? If he had known, he would have surely returned to her, across the sea and through the frosted mountains. It was a love story that over inflated in her mind, filled with a tragedy that would have moved her to tears had her own heart not been so hardened. All she wanted was their happiness, in the hopes that her own could be even a dim reflection of it. 

“I am uncomfortable with the similarities I have found between us. I almost hope that Ameridan was not Dalish, so I can stop drawing so many comparisons. It would ease my mind, to know that my imagination is simply being overactive.” Still his hands held her own, their warmth pressing down, seeping into her bones. There was some magic at work, as much healing as she would let him do to her broken, failing body. Neither mentioned it, but Maiwe gave him the smallest smile, which he returned. 

“Yet they loved each other truly, until the end. A dedication like that seems like something out of a tale.” Solas had said nothing, so Maiwe pressed onward, tongue tripping over her own words. She thought he looked troubled as he spoke, though they were far from the fire and the moon was not full that night. She could not allow herself to believe that; their relationship had seen far worse troubles than the brewing, inevitable final battle with Corypheus. 

“It is a rare thing indeed. They were better people than I could hope to be.” And what was she supposed to take from those words? The trouble roiled in her stomach uneasily, unfolding and fighting the heat he had filled her with only a short time ago. Perhaps he saw some of her panic, for he tried to kiss her, brought his lips down to hers even as she turned her cheek, so that he only skimmed that soft down. 

“Take me seriously, please. My heart has broken for them. Let me have a moment of vulnerability before you drag yourself into it.” Normally, she was not bothered when Solas spoke of himself, but he had put himself down, had brought her own mood further down with him. Could they not have this single moment of shared peace? Could they not contemplate the fate of others and have it end in a positive light?

He shook his head at her, dropping her hands to rub at the back of his head ruefully. “Just do not invest too much in tales, vhenan. We have seen only one facet of their story. No love is so pure, so innocent. No love is without struggle.” He spoke with the weight of experience, and she felt guilty for lashing out, though she stood by her earlier words. Still, they found it difficult to remain angry at each other, even more difficult to stand so close and not have the faintest contact. When he reached his hand out once more, she accepted it, let herself be drawn closer to him, so that the space between them was only as wide as a single exhalation. 

“I want to believe. Just let me do so much, until we find out more.” Too much had gone wrong. She felt herself breaking, the pressure from her illness being made public mixing with the pressure of being Inquisitor, of commanding so many. Her alienation from others had only grown, even though most seemed to support her, even though her friends had stayed, against all odds. This one love story, incomplete as it was, was enough to give her hope that even against strong odds, something could remain; an emotion so pure and long lasting that it even brought a spirit from the Fade. Would she be so fortunate with her own love? 

This time, when Solas bent, she returned his kiss, hungry for reassurance that he would not give verbally. The hunger overwhelmed, overtook her better senses. If she satisfied the hunger, she would not think of the answers Solas gave. She would think only of him, of the love that had helped her carry herself so far in this journey. It was a love that bolstered her, a love that made her feel that despite her disability she was worthy to lead, to be called Inquisitor and Herald. Worthy to bear the Anchor on her palm, fight against its green light and pain. It was a love she had to believe in, a romance she had to think would span generations. Without it, she would be lost.


	15. Rifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter based on the prompt 'Maiwe fighting demons that are too powerful for her.'

That there were physical challenges that could still overtake her companions came as a surprise to Maiwe. She relied on them completely, to possess a physical strength that she could not hope to match. In this sheltered valley, her expectations were shattered as surely as Cassandra’s shield, the shards of both scattered at her feet. 

They had been warned that the demons at the Frostback Basin possessed an unusual power, far superseding any others they had faced before, and they had all scoffed. Their abilities had been tested again and again, and they always rose victorious. Though they still faced in the near insurmountable obstacle of defeating Corypheus, they had, in many respects, grown far too confident, their battles all too easily won. Even Maiwe felt as though there were few things she could not pin to the earth with her bow. She was not so foolish to overexert herself, but there was a pride to her movements when she fought. It was no longer the desperate flailing of one who killed only to survive. The deaths still weighed on her soul, but it was lighter now, the chains a little looser. From her position at the back, raining arrows down on their foes, she rarely walked away with even a scratch. Was it any wonder that she grew complacent? 

As a group, they marveled at the environment. The trees seemed larger here, the birds more colorful. They shoved each other playfully. Even Cassandra had teasing words to say, directed towards Dorian. “Is this where you take your clothing inspiration from?” They were all so light hearted, so free, growing closer to their goal of rediscovering the ending of Ameridan. There were rifts here, but all four felt as though they were a minor obstacle. 

Maiwe and Solas stood side by side. A rift sparkled in the distance, shining over an area where the river formed a flat flood plain, intersected by ruins whose origin she could not even guess. They held hands like giddy new lovers, any tension between them forgotten as they gazed upon a familiar adversary. With so much changing, with the constant onslaught of yet more groups that seemed only to want their deaths, the tears in the veil were almost comforting. They followed a certain pattern. The demons fell more easily each time, as the researchers back at Skyhold discovered more weaknesses. Why expect anything different? It seemed like a vast improvement over the mad Hakkonites in their endless waves. 

Her movements languid, Maiwe pulled an arrow from her quiver. She could feel the mark pulsating, stretching against the confines of bones and skin to reach up to the sky, longing to become one with the rip above them. She moved into action so slowly, anticipating the spots on the ground that would belch forth their horrors in a spray of green light, knocking the unwary to the ground, but not them. They were seasoned. They were wise. They were not prepared. 

The rift was quiet for several minutes, as if watching them, considering what gift it would give. That in itself was unusual enough to give Maiwe pause. She looked to Solas, who stared back at her. He knew nothing. Cassandra and Dorian were the same. They all gripped their weapons a little tighter, lowered their stances from insolent slouches into the full posture of a seasoned fighter. But they were not scared yet. They still considered themselves prepared. There was an easy arrogance still on Solas’ face, reflected in the posture of Maiwe’s wrist, holding up her glowing hand. 

From the ground, the beasts were birthed. 

The air was already cold here, the lush plants falsely advertising warmth and humidity. The despair demons, twinned from one spot on the ground, made it cold as winter. Everything froze in their wake, and their breath brought further ice, destroying all the greenery that lay in their path. Their movements were so rapid that they were difficult to track; first they moved together, and then away from each other, repelled like magnets. They were not alone either; this miniature breach was a mother to another pair of twins. 

The terror demons stalked the ground. One saw Maiwe, and with a powerful leap from its hind legs, it closed the gap between them in seconds. Up close, it smelled of nothing more than the faint ozone of magic. It should have smelled foul or corrupted. It should not be so inoffensive to the senses. But there was no time to ponder. Maiwe loosed an arrow at close range, and while it struck true, there was not enough force behind it. Where it punctured the demon’s skin, bits of the Fade trickled out, oozing into the air and dissipating back up to the rift. It did not seem to notice its injury. With one clawed hand, it swept her backwards, knocking her off her feet and into the trunk of a tree. Dazed, she looked for help. 

Everyone was locked in their own struggle. One of the despair demons floated tauntingly around Solas. Every spell he cast just missed, or seemed to do nothing at all. It was playing with him as a cat does with its prey. Cassandra and Dorian stood back to back, the other two monsters also circling lazily, leisurely, their pace a mockery of what the four had been doing before. Worse yet, the tear was not done with them. It had one surprise yet remaining, a final child to be given to the world. Birthed from hideous, swirling green mist, the pride demon stepped forth, easily ten feet tall, an electric whip dangling from one hand. It saw how they fought and it laughed, deep enough to rumble the ground. 

“Fall back!” Her breath came from choked lungs; she was afraid that the terror demon had broken something deep within. Her chest hurt, a sharp pain quite unlike the usual dull she was used to. It hurt to breathe too deeply. Tears came to her eyes unbidden as she bit her lip so hard that blood dribbled down her chin, a sacrifice to Falon’din. Do not let them die now. Not here. Not with so much left to do. 

The demons strength drew from the veil, but it was also their downfall. They could only follow so far before their magical bonds would snap them back, or make them dissipate into the air entirely. Running was not noble. If anyone saw, the Inquisition would become the laughing stock of Thedas, but what else could they do? Maiwe would not allow her companions to die just for her own foolish pride. “Retreat!” She called out once more, louder now, making sure she was heard. Her palms were bleeding, leaving a smear of red on the lacquered iron bark of her swan adorned bow. 

One by one they listened. First Cassandra and Dorian came, feet pounding through the undergrowth. They followed her willingly, trusting in her decision. Only Solas dared to question her now, stood there for a moment longer, staff held at the ready. He was no fool though; he could not fight five demons. He followed quickly afterwards, and the four ran as fast as their legs could take them, until Maiwe collapsed, coughing. She did not know it was possible to feel so much pain, but they were safe. That should have been most important, but all she felt was creeping shame. They had not listened, and now they had almost died. Cassandra was without a shield. Dorian’s eye was blackened, and a long, shallow scrape graced the top of Solas’ skull. It bled heavily. Scrapes along Cassandra’s armor showed the traces of claws. In some places the thick metal had been punctured. 

Though she was concerned for them, they came to her first, fussing like mother hens. Solas held her hand once more tightly, desperately. “Next time we will be better prepared.” Maiwe could do little more than whisper, trying to smile. Instead she bared her teeth, and let herself slump into his arms, relishing the feeling of safety and warmth it gave her. He helped her stand once more, though her whole body trembled with exhaustion. 

“Next time, we will win.”


	16. Ameridan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All elvhen courtesy of Project Elvhen by FenxShiral. 
> 
> Maiwe debates morality- Solas sees the world differently from her. If only Ameridan had stayed.

“Fight well Inquisitor. I am honored to have met you.“

The words echoed in her mind. There was no time for her to speak, not even to say “Don’t leave.” He was gone, and it was a disappearance that would last. All that remained of Ameridan was dust and memories, tales written down and told to children. He had told Maiwe so much, but not enough. It would never be enough, and now she would never hear more. 

Her fingers sifted through the dust of what had been, just moments ago, a living, breathing being. It filtered through her hands, falling back into static piles, undisturbed by any breeze. 

They were twinned souls. Even in death she felt their connection. It tugged at her, warned her that this too would be her fate if she was not more careful. Maiwe could be a name and nothing more, her greatest accomplishments forgotten, her resting place marked on no map, her companions footnotes in some dry, dusty tome. She could not end up like this; she could not help seeing Ameridan as her reflection. On his brow, Dirthamen’s markings, writ in ink. On her own, Falon’din’s trail, like a spider’s web. Just as those gods were brothers, but not blood, so Maiwe and Ameridan reflect each other. Blood would not be strong enough for the bond between them. 

Would she be the last Inquisitor? Maiwe hoped so. Ameridan had not wanted this burden. Neither had she. It was yet another similarity between them. They should have discussed it. They should have talked more than they did. Frustration and anger burned within her, but not at the first Inquisitor. It was selfish of her to want more. He was at rest now, finally rejoining Telana. To delay that even for another minute would have been unspeakably cruel. 

“He can finally rest.” Did she speak that out loud, or did Solas? In this muted place, stuck in time for so long, nothing was clear. They had to leave; there was only death here. As if echoing her thoughts, the dragon that had been frozen with Ameridan came to life, stumbling and then rising on weak legs. It lived when Ameridan died; was all his hard work for naught? They had to slay the dragon. Only then would Hakkon be put back in his proper place. Only then would Ameridan’s work be complete. What one Inquisitor started, another would end. It seemed right. Maiwe watched the dragon circle above them once before flying into the night. They had work yet to do. 

***

“Ga him val, val'lasem ove aven'athem.” By the fire, Solas’ words caressed her skin without the need for physical contact. 

“Each becomes memory, lived through parted lips,” Maiwe repeated back to him. She could muster only a wan smile. “I’d never heard the poem before I came here. Ameridan and the Mage. The author was right.” 

“You have been practicing your elvhen.” He smiled to encourage her, but she could not share it. All her emotions felt raw and frayed; she would not be able to heal until the journey was over, and she had restored Ameridan’s name, and brought some pride back to the Dalish. They had not always been so insular. The first Inquisitor gave her hope for her people, even as he gave her despair for her own future. 

Before Maiwe could speak again, something stirred in the forest below their tree camp. From their vantage point, it was easy to see two Hakkonites moving through the undergrowth. They did not bother to be silent, swinging their mighty axes and singing praises to their God who had blazed brightly across the sky just hours before. For all the men they had slain, it seemed like ten more rose to replace them, each as ardent as the next, religious fervor producing a blood lust that could not be sated with wisdom and words. It hurt Maiwe to put an arrow to her string, to draw it back and anchor it firmly at the corner of her mouth. These were but men, but they would not listen to reason. 

There was no reason to prolong the battle or risk lives. Maiwe let loose an arrow, and it buried its barbed tip deep within the flesh of one of the Hakkonite’s neck. He had no time to even scream; his hands rose to the arrow and his eyes widened with shock, and then he fell to his knees. He had no final words. There was only a small gurgle as blood poured forth from his mouth. Alerted, his companion looked around wildly, but their camp was well hidden. The man was moving too much though, and Maiwe’s second arrow struck his shoulder. It went deep, but it did nothing other than enrage the warrior, who bellowed into the dark of night, swinging his axe wildly. Indecision paralyzed her. The sight of the blood spurting out over tanned flesh horrified her. His cries of rage and pain were all too human. Her hesitation would draw other Hakkonites down upon them. 

Where she paused, Solas leapt into action. Green magic, a reflection of the Fade itself, leapt from his staff. The bolts paralyzed, stopped the man in his tracks. Not even his chest moved; his face grew red as he failed to breathe. “Solas, stop!” Maiwe found her voice again. She could not let the man die like this, even if he would have gladly killed them. 

Sparing a glance to her, Solas nodded once. A fist rose from the earth, brown fingers wrapping around the Hakkonite and dragging him down into a pit. He did not rise again, and the forest floor returned to the silence it had possessed before. If it were not for the single body that remained, it would be as if nothing had happened. Even those birds that sang in the night resumed their song again. 

Maiwe met Solas’ gaze over the fire once more. They both had sweat on their brows, more from adrenaline than from any significant effort. She breathed heavily, her heart running too swiftly; Solas was calm. He did not look like he regretted his action. 

“They are men, not monsters.” She broke the silence, trying to voice her doubts. “They are not infested with red lyrium or possessed by demons. Put them side by side with the Avvar, and it would be difficult to tell the difference.” Something crawled along her spine, leaving a trail of ice in its wake. 

“And they would kill you, as men do. Do not forget that they released the dragon God that destroyed Ameridan.” Solas’ words did not reassure her. Maiwe’s heart remained troubled. Nothing was clear cut anymore. It seemed she brought only death. Even as Solas drew her close, let her lay her head on his shoulder, helped her relax so that some of the weight fell off her shoulders, her mind would not rest. Her hands were permanently stained red. Had Ameridan felt the same? Maiwe’s heart burned with a thousand unanswered questions.


	17. Shartan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of questions about Shartan. So does Maiwe. Does Solas have answers? As always, he is evasive.

A great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming  
Those who had been slaves were now free.  


Her fingers caressed the shem text, as if physical contact was enough to let her understand the words written there, as if she could absorb the knowledge if she only pressed down hard enough. This verse was forbidden, but Maiwe could see nothing in it that would differentiate it from the rest of the dross. Did Shartan’s pointed ears mark him as anathema? Did her own? No. She had been embraced too readily as a Herald of Andraste. Even now she protested, but they died on her lips as eager eyes sought hope in every stumbling, hesitant movement she made How could she be what they wanted her to be without their faith? How could she be their hero when she did not even know the words that defined their existence? It was the least she could do, though she chafed to bend to them, though she readily brought up her own Gods, though her belief in those was tenuous enough. Everything was tenuous. 

Once they had been slaves. Once they had been free. Now they lurked in the forest, or were shut up in alienages, crowded alongside death and disease. Freedom was limited if you were elven, yet they had all taken to her so readily. Hardly anyone called her ‘knife-ear’ anymore. Not to her face. The same humans who kicked their servants half groveled at her feet, begging to serve the Inquisition in whatever way possible. 

“Shartan, why did you flock to Andraste? Was it because our own did not listen?” As always, she spoke out loud when she thought she was alone, hoping that thoughts voiced would be thoughts clarified. As always, she remained as mystified as before. Those printed words were heretical but they taught her nothing. Were elves so detested that the mere fact of their existence had to be hidden? There were elves that follow this Maker even now. Would it not be helpful for them to know of Shartan? But there was the matter of the betrayal. That was where the problem of Shartan lay. 

The text made it clear that Andraste promised the Dales to her people. It was their gift, their reward for fighting this battle, but a scant few hundred years later it had been taken from them and they had been cast off to live in nomadic clans or be put into alienages, kept no better than dogs in kennels. It would not do for us to get the idea that we rightfully own anything. Maiwe’s thoughts are bitter; she can taste it on her tongue. It is not a good trait to have, this twisting of her soul. The Inquisitor should be better than that, but Maiwe could not be. For all that her own clan had mistreated her, they were flesh and blood. If there had been a home for them in the Dales, things may have been different. Her illness could have been nurtured, her mind and spirit shored up instead of neglected. So much could be different.  


“Is this what Shartan wanted?” Again she spoke out loud, but this time there was a reply to her words, jolting her out of her solitude and back into the physical realm.  


“I very much doubt it, but unfortunately, he is not in a position where we can ask him.” Solas leaned against her doorway, his smile and eyes cool but not unfriendly. “I thought you had elected to ignore the Chantry entirely.” 

“My ignorance can only take me so far. It’s obvious that their belief in me has grown, even when I say that I’m Dalish, even when I’m marked by the gods.” Solas’ eyes flickered up to her vallaslin and back to her eyes again. He did not seem to look upon them favorably today, though he had not minded them before. Perhaps it was simply too much of a reminder of her heritage, one that he still loudly condemned. They butted heads less now, and his negativity had slowly receded, but it was still present. 

“But why do they hide Shartan? I’ve never seen him in a Chantry window. Their whole religion is so human centered, even thought hey want to spread it to us. Would it not be better to edit the text, rather than excise it?” Such questions strained at Maiwe, and she knew her night would likely be sleepless. She could not tackle the Chantry about this, at least not head on. Leliana’s deep-seated belief meant she was unlikely to help Maiwe spread any word about this hidden Canticle. Perhaps the knowledge would die with her. She had already shaken the world too much, first by existing, then by the revelation of her illness, and finally with the sudden, shocking knowledge that the first Inquisitor, Ameridan, had been Dalish. How much more would her own people allow her to reveal before she became more trouble than she was worth?

“There are always those that will question established teachings. What would happen if the city elves started to? The Chantry has held them in their sway for too long now. They can spare no independent thought.” A frown creased Solas’ face. How often did they discuss things that were unpleasant? How often did they focus only on the negatives of her situation? 

“You know, the illustrations here are quite nice. Gold leaf and leaded paint. Shartan looks to be bald too. Perhaps you are him.” Maiwe’s tone was joking, and if she noted a fleeting expression of alarm cross Solas’ face, she said nothing. It was momentary, replaced by a laugh that seemed genuine enough.  
“Do you think me that old?” He sat on the edge of her desk and tweaked a strand of her playfully. 

“Mmm, perhaps not that elderly. Besides, if you were Shartan, I’m sure you would have more important things to do than staying here with me and indulging in my silly ideas.” Maiwe closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Solas’ fingers braiding a small section of her hair. He moved quickly and efficiently; he had done it so often now that he was better at it than she was. “Still. I would like to see Mother Giselle’s face if I told her that I was officially re-instating the Canticle for all Skyhold residents.” They rarely spoke now, and when they did, they argued violently, both with raised voices and flushed faces. 

“I think even the Inquisitor may be charged with murder of the elderly for that.” Solas slid off her desk and Maiwe sighed, though she rose and stretched out her body. How long had she poured over these words, hoping to find a deeper meaning? Some words were writ on vellum, others on parchment. It was not even a matched set; it was what could be scrounged and found, locked up in crumbling castles or hidden in cedar chests. Maybe there were even earlier versions, or later ones with changed text. It was heresy to suggest the Canticles had ever been anything other than what they were, but the reality was that words changed, were updated and molded to suit the times.  


“If you bring a bottle of wine, we can sneak to the library tonight and search for more.” She had searched a hundred times before, but the seeking wasn’t the point, was it? Their hands would meet over old, embossed spines, their eyes looking at each other through gaps left in the bookcases. It would be the perfect break from this impending headache. 

“Tonight it is, vhenan.”


	18. Forbidden Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maiwe drinks from the Well.

Her mind fragments; new branches of information shooting out, threatening to overwhelm her and bring her to her knees.

The water laps around her thighs; only Maiwe’s movement disturbs it, releasing a blue haze in the air that is tinged with the ozone taste of magic. She can feel the eyes of all her companions watching her. There is only disapproval from Morrigan, but how could she give her people’s past to a human? It is bad enough that she should drink it, despoil it with her sickly, pale body. I would be unforgivable to allow another to take this burden onto themselves, take this legacy and corrupt it. The consequences may be grave, but what is one more burden piled with the rest?

It is sweet on her tongue, bringing an unexpected smile of delight to her lips. Knowledge should be heavy, should be dense and weighty, but this is light. Therein lay its deception. She had intended only to sip, but now she gulps eagerly, trying to fill herself with the knowledge whose drought she has suffered from for so long. She cannot get enough of this water, even as she knows she should stop, even as she tries to exercise self control and fails.

Then the power of it knocks her back, and she knows that she is no longer in the Temple. Darkness surrounds her, trails fingers along her skin, and instead of leaving marks, it imparts knowledge. Corypheus, the air whispers. We can help you defeat him, if only you will pay our price. Dimly, Maiwe realizes that the words are not spoken in the common tongue she knows. They drip with a honeyed tone in ancient elvhen, teasing her. She could have all this knowledge. All it requires is agreement, simply saying yes. It will be so easy. Her lips already form the words.

“I will pay whatever price you ask.” And then her head feels as if it would burst, and she is on the ground looking up, gilt and green leaves intertwining in a throbbing mass that makes it difficult for her to find her feet. Perhaps, from some far corner, she can feel Abelas lingering, watching to see who would ruin the sanctity of his home for so many years. His eyes are golden, but they are cold. Or is that simply her imagination? The lines between reality and something other seem thin, as thin as the veil between the worlds. She is her own Rift, and she brings her own destruction. As her pain lessens, her guilt grows. She did not mean to destroy the life Abelas had. She did not mean to insult him with her very presence. Stay, she wants to say, but what comes out is a language she had not known before. The word is elvhen, and it echoes throughout the Temple. Only now does she realize the water is gone, and the basin is empty. A patina of rust and corruption is already overtaking it.  


When she stands, she knows everything. Her mind has stretched. It thinks not in one language, but in two, and it whispers the secrets of her people in her ears. It fights her, or she fights it- they war for control, for dominance. As she once welcomed Falon’din on her brow, now she knows she will welcome Mythal, though she does not know the extent of it. Not yet. All she knows is that her mind has become a tree, the branches of Mythal spreading up and outwards from the roots of Falon’din. All she knows is that she can no longer return to being simply Maiwe, though she no longer knows who Maiwe is. 

“How do you feel?” Morrigan sounds almost concerned, but not for the Inquisitor. She is simply concerned the knowledge has gone to the wrong person. Solas looks nervous, butts in before Morrigan can speak again. 

“What have you learned?” She looks at him, and something wants to connect, but her mind blocks it. This knowledge is not freely given; she has to grasp at it, and even then it slips out of her hands as easily as water. Instead, selfishly, she turns her gaze inward, hoping that the Well holds knowledge of her illness. Time is ticking by and Corypheus will arrive soon, but still Maiwe dives in, hoping against enormous odds that there is something there.  
But if there is, the knowledge was not placed in the Well. 

Something shatters in time with her hopes, and when Maiwe turns to her companions, she looks over them, toward the stone balcony. Corypheus comes, and there is no time for her to vocalize the maelstrom within. There is only time to run, to dive through the Eluvian, the sting of cowardice a familiar sensation by now. Even as she passes through the blue haze, feels it wash over her skin, Elvhen words whisper in her ears. The secrets will not stop now, but it is nothing of use, nothing that she can utilize in her battle. Even as they walk the desolate stone pathway that winds between all the dead mirrors of her people, the whispers do not stop. They tell her what these mirrors once connected to, but the names mean nothing to Maiwe. Exhaustion threatens to overtake her, and she cannot stand this intrusion, these voices that do not care one whit for her. She is only their vessel. 

Side by side, she walks with Solas, and soon he is half supporting her. When Maiwe opens her mouth, that same litany of places and people long dead pours out. Every now and then, a name seems to resonate with Solas, and he stumbles, or they both do, and then they straighten and walk on. Morrigan’s gaze is calculating, but Cassandra and Dorian seem afraid of her. And why shouldn’t they be? She cannot collect herself or her thoughts, cannot make her tongue stop running, even when they step through the other end of the Eluvian and emerge back at Skyhold. Her lips are cracked and dry, and she bleeds red as well as words.  


“Rest.” It is the first cognizant thing she has said in some time. Her companions glance between them before they all nod to each other, bodies held stiff. They want to discuss what transpired so badly, but they are as weary as she is. Their armor and their skin needs to be cleansed, and their Inquisitor is more useless than she has ever been. Rest is all Maiwe needs, and then they can comb through her mind to their hearts’ content. 

“How are you feeling?” She does not remember walking up to her room. Solas must have helped her, though he was as silent as she was. Now, he finally asks how he fares. Even Morrigan asked first. He cared only for the knowledge, and not for her, and suddenly Maiwe can’t stand to have him there. 

“Leave. Please. I don’t want you in my head right now. There’s enough there already.” She is acutely afraid that even in rest he will walk with her in the Fade. What once was her romantic retreat seems like a nightmare now. Nowhere is she safe. Paranoia threatens to overtake her, and her thin white hands wave uselessly in the air.  
Is that hurt in her eyes? She’s not wrong; Maiwe knows this. She peels off her armor, not caring if she watches, and collapses on her mattress, too tired to crawl under the blankets. Solas says nothing, but he nods once, a jerky movement. Her eyes begin to close. She is content that he will listen. Someone drags a quilt over her her and while Maiwe is still mad at him, her lips curve upward. The ache in her head eclipses the usual ache in her chest and her bones, and that in itself provides some twisted kind of relief. The Elvhen still whispers in her ear, but she is so tired she can ignore it. For now she will rest. Even the spirits (if that is what they are) in her head seem to agree. 

Rest, Maiwe, they say. You may learn from us on the morrow, and we will tell you such things. Is this not what you always wanted? 

And, though she tries to deny it, it is.


	19. Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You knew this scene was coming. Maiwe and Solas part ways.

Her face was not bare; she did not bear that shame, at least. No one could see her pain, and without it externalized, she was free to bury it deep inside where it could slowly bleed, making all her limbs heavy and cold as ice. A fever burned on her still marked forehead, fighting for dominance. Hot and cold. She was frozen, but the fire tempted to thaw it, threatened to melt it away until the tears flowed down her cheeks, falling like raindrops from Falon’din’s branches. Would it be better if she had let Solas take away the shame of her people? Would things have changed if she had agreed, if she had not argued that the vallaslin had evolved to change meaning from what it had once been? What if she had not tried to say how important her patron god was to her, as a representation of all she had achieved? Nothing would have changed. She would be just as alone as now. 

“You must be stronger than this, dear.” That was so easy for Vivienne to say. She had not known heartbreak of this magnitude. 

No. That was not fair. Maiwe had been with the mage when her own paramour had passed away, refusing what would prolong his life for months more. At least Solas was still alive. At least Maiwe could look at him and could hate him and miss him by turns, heart beating so heavily that it pained her. Or was that just her lungs? She found it difficult to take care of herself, to care for this weakened vessel that was her body. Vivienne brought her tea, and Varric brought her food, and neither commented on her innate selfishness, on the way she clung to her bed as if it was all that was left to her. Maiwe’s friends who had lost so much, and they still had patience for her continued sulking over her own loss. Even Cassandra’s face softened. A much loved copy of Tales of the Champion was left outside her door, pages dog eared, certain sentences underlined, words circled. Another morning there was a silk scarf tied around the heavy iron door handle; Maiwe had publicly admired it when Dorian wore it months earlier. Another morning, Cole himself was asleep at her threshold, head cushioned on his hat. 

Bull handed her a massive stave, taller than she was. “Hit me, boss. As hard as you can.” It felt cathartic, though she was sure the qunari barely felt even her hardest attempts. Sera bought her breeches, a note tied to them: ‘Fill with insects of your choice?’ They smelled like Solas and she cried even as she laughed, until she did not know what her tears were for. Even Blackwall tried, in his clumsy way, to discuss it, but they both ended up simply drinking in silence. It was not awkward; she had nothing she needed to say, and he had nothing he could add. Leliana and Josephine threatened to drag Maiwe to Val Royeux; they would take her kicking and screaming if they had to. Instead, she went riding with Cullen, pushing their mounts to a gallop that stung their faces. 

Still, she could not look Solas in the eyes. She avoided his small office at all costs, though once she went in at night, when there was no light burning. Her candle illuminated the mural. It looked complete. What did that mean? Was his work here done? She had so many questions and so few answers, and the texts she had always relied on were no help. She felt lost often, but never like this. Maiwe’s own feet would not collect beneath her, and when she rose, she stumbled like a foal, missteps in every direction. It would not do to linger like this, but could she not indulge for a bit longer? As if Corypheus would wait, as if he would respect her inner turmoil and be respectful. When the Inquisitor stumbled, the whole Inquisition fell. 

She took up her bow with her mind in a daze. Her feet walked dirt paths, but it all blurred together. Everything seemed familiar and strange all at once. She had seen that tree before, but it had not loomed like that, had not extended its fingers so far into her path so that they scraped her pale skin, leaving red marks. Even her companions looked strange. Maiwe tried to smile for them, but it must have been a grimace. Their dismay was obvious. Even the Mark was strange; it pained her more now, stretched and pulled and seemed to grow larger and smaller by the hour. Sometimes it seemed to bleed freely, but when she looked again, there was nothing running down her wrist, nothing on her clothes or dripping to the ground. 

Maiwe went to the Hinterlands one last time, closing those few remaining rifts that she could not handle before. She fought demons with an almost reckless abandon, fighting until her limited strength was sapped and then some, fighting until she lay in the dirt afterward, panting like a dog. Her companions had to half carry, half drag her back to the tent, each step she took leaving a deep furrow in the ground. 

“You must stop.” Who was it that said that? Vivienne and Cassandra seemed to blend together, until Bull laid a hand on her shoulder, calming her. 

“We’re worried about you.” Bull’s voice was a comforting rumble. Through a haze of exhaustion, Maiwe smiled, and this time it looked slightly more genuine. 

Their worry penetrated, but it did so slowly. They returned to Skyhold, and her eyes widened. Colors seemed more vivid again, the edges of the world once more sharp and defined. Everything was still dull, still softened, but if she held herself on that edge, if she pressed that knowledge of her friends’ concert close to her heart, she could keep herself awake. Numbness would give way to pain again, but even her body could not maintain a heartache so constant. She looked at him, and the dagger in her heart only plunged in halfway, the force behind it far less strong. 

She woke up and felt an unaccustomed vigor in her limbs, a sense of renewed purpose that had her moving far faster than she had in months, stumbling over her own feet as her swollen joints screamed for mercy. Never one to bow to the whims of her body, Maiwe pushed herself harder, strode down the stairs with a confidence not one hundred percent genuine, but her head held high and her spine straight. She let them stare. Those who knew her well enough nodded, content that they had done what they could, happy to know that their faith in her was not misplaced. What was love and heartbreak when she had fought so much else? Perhaps she would even love again, they whispered to each other, if she survived the final battle. If any of them did. It was enough for them to cling to, even if the idea was still distant from Maiwe’s mind.

“I must talk with Morrigan.”


	20. Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the real ending, since Trespasser gave us so much to work with.

When Maiwe saw Solas, all she could think of was loss so that it filled her and it spilled over, even as the anchor racked her body with pain. Driven to her knees, her eyes stayed on him, trying to take in what two years of time had done to a figure once familiar and loved.

The pain receded, but in its place came anger. The knowledge of who Solas was had come to her so slowly, too slowly, but it was there now. The whispers from the Well confirmed it, taunted Maiwe for not understanding it sooner. Stupid child. Slow child. How did you ever believe he was a mere apostate? This was not helpful. None of this was helpful. She grit her teeth and lifted her head once more. The blood in her left hand pulsed green.

“Ma harel lasa!” The words leaked from her mouth. A trickle of blood from her lips, from where she had bit down to try and tamp the pain, left its mark on her skin. He lied to her. She had given Solas all, and had received only this obfuscation in return. “You knew. You were the first who knew about my illness. You were going to be the only one, had the secret not leaked. I trusted you completely. I welcomed you.” His excuses were mere hollow notes in her ears, unable to hold their weight against the revelation.

The pain came flooding back. Anything Maiwe could have said was replaced with a cry of pain. Tears sprang in her eyes, unwelcome. Weak. He had made her weak, and she was still weak to him. Some part of her still loved him and wanted to guide him away from this path he would take. He was making a terrible mistake, as he had made others. Was his life simply a series of missteps? Where did that put her? Perhaps loving Maiwe was one of the worst of Solas’ transgressions. Perhaps it merely the most personal to her. He had already destroyed so much. She was selfish to put herself first, but Maiwe had never freed herself from that flaw.

“Solas, var lath vir suledin.” She couldn’t give up on him. To do so was to doom a world Maiwe had grown to love and a life she finally saw as worthwhile. She had worked so hard to claim it as her own, and he would undo it all with magic she could not understand. Please, she wanted to beg. Please let me save you. Let me save Thedas. Their love, such as it had been, seemed miniscule in the face of the lives that would be destroyed. Mothers, fathers, siblings. Other lovers, whose lives had been so much happier than their own. Maiwe, who had already lost Clan Lavellan, would sacrifice it all so that no one would have to feel that loss.

Instead, the pain returned. It was worse than before; it blinded her in a wash of green light. She barely felt Solas’ lips on her own, though she recognized the gesture as some form of final parting. He knew that she would stop him; she was angry and hungry for it all at once, hoping to take some vital power from him even as he removed the anchor from her. She could feel it being torn from her flesh, the magic leaving her all at once so that she felt deflated and small, so much smaller than she had felt for years. It was gone and he was taking it. Was a receptacle all she had ever been to him? How much of this kiss was rooted in lies, and how much of it twined with the word ‘vhenan’ to form the truth? None of it. She could not speak; he was already gone, leaving Maiwe only her anger and her ringing loss.

Cradling the blackened, twisted flesh of her arm to her chest, Maiwe watched the eluvian flare and die. “I will stop you,” she said, but he could not hear her where he had gone. He left her to her loss once more, to weeping flesh that finally bled a true red, sluggish and burnt.

He left her to stop him, his jaw bone necklace lying at her feet.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Take It Slow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763882) by [Lumeneas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeneas/pseuds/Lumeneas)




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